


Kill me softly

by Astroboots



Category: The Equalizer (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, F/M, Manipulative Relationship, Married Couple, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astroboots/pseuds/Astroboots
Summary: Your husband is not the same man you married and sometimes that scares you.
Relationships: Dave York/You, Pedro Pascal/Reader, Pedro Pascal/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28





	Kill me softly

This man in front of you, is not your husband. **  
**

He has all the physical characteristics of the man you married ten years ago. A gorgeously deep brown gaze that roots your feet to the spot whenever your eyes meet across any room. The very same, large bumpy nose, the tip always a bit cold when he presses his face into the nook of your neck from behind on chilly mornings before either of you have had the chance to have your caffeine. Still has the softest hair that seems to melt at your touch when you slip your fingers into the brown locks. Locks that quickly curl at the edges if he misses a hair appointment by more than a week.

Except he rarely looks you in the eyes anymore, and he never spontaneously wraps his arms around you; and you can’t remember the last time you were curled up in his lap, hands nesting into those thick messy strands. 

Where there once was softness, it’s been replaced with a calm and oppressive hardness that speaks of an unfamiliar distance that cannot be breached. 

Somehow you seem to be the only one who notices. In this suburban neighbourhood with McMansions that scream middle-class american, the residents all welcome Dave amongst their midst. Always remarking, as you happen to run into them on their group power walks (despite your best attempts to avoid them) _that you are so lucky to have Dave for a husband._

Objectively, you know they are right. From the outside looking in, he is the perfect husband, always has been. A good-looking man with an impeccable work ethic that pays for the mortgage on your beautiful home. White picket fences, and a garden that can house that big Bernese Mountain dog he got for the girls on Christmas. He remembers all your anniversaries, and is always on time to pick up your daughters from ballet rehearsals when he’s home, and he even helps out with house chores. Always insisting on doing his own laundry and never letting you touch the dishes. 

But this is not David that you fell in love with, a man that playfully whispers _te amo_ in your ear, as he cheekily pinches your waist, just because. _This is some guy who calls himself Dave_ , the guy who comes around to the neighbourhood bbq cookout. Wears flashy ties and bespoke suits, with the white Colgate smile of a divorced car salesman. Your husband is not there, replaced by a bodysnatcher. 

Sometimes you’ll lie in bed together, about to go to sleep and you just look at him, brown eyes glued to the screen of his phone as he’s replying to a work email past midnight, and you want to grab him by the breadth of his shoulders, shake and rattle him back and forth, just to see if even a morsel of sincerity and something akin to genuine will accidentally fall out when he’s not looking and paying attention. 

You want to scream at him, inches from his face, so close you’d fog up his reading glasses, to ask him the questions that are so loud and constant in your brain it’s an echoing tinnitus, _Who are you and what have you done to my husband?_

Entering the kitchen, you’re greeted by what should be the most idyllic scene. There’s an array of glitter pens and crafts supplies spilled across the farmhouse-style kitchen table. Dave is hunching over the table, as he’s teaching your daughter, Camille, how to spell Wisconsin with bright yellow crayons while Marianne, your oldest is on her phone playing Pokemon Go. 

By habit, your heart skips a beat at the sight of rolled up sleeves tucked to his forearm. The way the muscles underneath flexes as he leans across the table to pick up a pink pen for your baby daughter to draw a heart over her ‘i’. The morning sun is spilling in from the small kitchen window, and as Camille wipes her nose with the back of her hand, Dave chuckles, before he grabs a tissue to clean up the running snot. All that is missing is a catchy jingle, and this would be straight out of a cereal commercial. 

He hears you before he sees you, even though your feet are bare and make no noise as you enter. It’s an uncanny skill he has, picking up on signs of intrusion, always prepared to defend himself from an unseen enemy. There’s a smile there to greet you, but nothing behind the eyes. 

Dave York smiles a lot, it just never quite reaches his eyes. The kind of practised smile you’d plaster on in front of the mirror while rehearsing for a presentation at work. It’s unnerving to look at and whenever he thinks you’re not looking, it blends into an ugly sneer of a smile, blank in its coldness that sends fine tremors up your spine. 

Helping Camille color in the wings of the unicorn in her drawing with a scorching pink, Dave tucks a loose lock of hair behind her chubby little ear. “I was called in at the last minute to attend a seminar in Brussels,” he tells you and you hum in acknowledgment as you brush past him towards the coffee machine. 

“I’ll drop off the kids at school before I head to the airport, so you might not see me before I leave for the flight.” 

“That’s a bit sudden. Something wrong?”

The corner of his lips curl upwards, still that fake unsettling smile. 

“No, Susan just wants me to attend a seminar with her, slated for early tomorrow, so I figured I’d take the flight this afternoon, schmooze with a few industry people to catch up, and I’ll be back by Friday night.” 

The coffee machine whirs in response as you drag the small cup to your lips. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes; of course.”

The back of his thumb drags across his lower lip, eyes flickering away from you to settle on the purple pony drawing. A tell tale sign that you know means he’s angry and frustrated. 

“Yes of course, as in everything’s fine? Or yes of course, let’s not talk about it because I want to avoid the subject?”

Shaking his head, there’s a small chuckle of, _don’t be silly._

“Everything’s fine, hon, you have to stop worrying so much.” 

Frustration pools in your throat, and you swallow the thick cloying resentment, teeth sinking into your lower lip. _Why do you even bother?_

Perhaps sensing your irritation, Dave looks up from the table and sets aside the crayon as he walks over to you, his hands, settling on top of your shoulder as he draws you in closer. “You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll take care of everything. Always.” 

It’s what he always tells you. And you trust him when he says he’ll take care of everything, you’re just not sure you can push down that gut instinct that tells you, you don’t want to know _how he takes care of it_ , and that makes you worry. 

His fingers curl gently under your jaw, tilting you upwards for a kiss. It’s pure instinct when you retreat from him, the slightest turn of your head, away from his lips. You don’t mean to be cruel. Just a knee-jerk reflex that you are unable to stop until it was too late. But you do feel cruel, when you see that he winces, eyes downcast with hurt surprise at the rejection. 

To your disappointment, he doesn’t press you on what’s wrong. Merely press his lips to your forehead instead. Chaste and cordial. A kiss you would greet an acquaintance with. 

“I’ll bring you back those Belgian chocolates you love,” he says, his facial expression schooled with an unreadable calm. 

* * * * *

The alarm clock reads 01:08am when you jolt awake from the aggressive slam of the car door on your driveway, from the upstairs bedroom. You nudge the slatted blinds until only a splinter of the front porch light peeks through, allowing you to see the monstrous Chevrolet parked in front of the garage.

Bleary and slightly sleep-concussed, it takes you more than a minute to recognize the familiar gait of your husband as he marches up to the front door of your porch. There’s a struggle with the keys, hands trembling so jarringly, you think you can see it from the second floor. When you can hear him angrily curse at the door, you toss the heavy duvet from your legs and make your way downstairs to let him inside. 

Reaching the dark unlit hallway, there is a metallic rattle of keys scratching and angry pawing against the door. The sound akin to an angry animal trying to break its way into your home. Your hand linger on the handle of the door, the low feral growl on the other side gripping your spine in warning, followed by an angry, _fuck_ , and a thump that makes you recoil in alarm at the menacing tone of it. Then there’s a hard kick, loud and forceful enough that you’re surprised it didn’t buckle the front of the door. 

It is enough to make you stand on the other side, as you steady your breath, with hesitation that stretches from one second then to several longer ones, willing it to stop. You’re scared of what it is you’re letting in, until you remind yourself that _it’s only your husband_ and you unlock the door. 

The moment the lock clicks, the door opens with a force that throws you off the balance of your heel, and you step back further into the hallway, to the flimsy safety it offers. There’s a feverish pitch in his eyes as he pushes in through the door past you, without so much as a greeting or a kiss and slams the door behind him in a huffed hurry upstairs. 

“Dave,” you ask, “is everythi—”

“Everything’s fine” he bites out, cutting you off. Yanking the noose-tight tie off of his neck, with thunderous stomping upstairs, still wearing his shoes, his coat, not gracing you with so much as a glance as his looming figure retreats into the darkness of the stairs.

When you enter your bedroom, it is dimly lit only by the nightlight you had left on from before. He’s not in the room. But the sound of the running shower, and light spilling from the threshold of the ensuite bathroom alerts you of his whereabouts as you survey the disquieting state that he’s left your bedroom in. 

Dave is an A-type neat freak. Always have been. A leftover habit from his early military days, that used to endear you to him, because who doesn’t like being married to a man who never leaves his laundry in a pile on the floor, and always makes the bed to a hotel standard. 

It speaks to the mental state of his mind that the contents of his weekender bag have been dumped haphazardly over the bed. His clothes, strewn across the floor, muddy shoes on different ends of the room, one by the bathroom door, the other close to the foot of the bed. 

You knew better than to knock on the bathroom door and ask if he’s ok, you would never get any answer other than, _everything’s fine, don’t worry about anything._

Instead, you pick up one of the wrinkly shirts discarded on top of the bed, folding it neatly. Your fingers trace the soft cotton of the fabric when you notice it, a smudge of dark almost coppery red under the yellow light of your bedroom. 

_Oh._

A thick layer of red lipstick stark against the crisp whiteness of the perfectly pressed stiff collar. Right near that spot on his neck, under his jaw, that makes his toes curl when you kiss it. 

A surge of jealousy, that you didn’t even think yourself capable of anymore prickles your face. You swear you can taste the sickening smell of another woman’s perfume on his shirt. It makes your mouth water with anger.

Your thumb rubs at the smudge, and you don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe you’re trying to erase the evidence of your husband’s infidelity. The proof in plain red on a white unblemished surface that he no longer loves you. 

You keep rubbing, images of him with his fingers tightly gripping onto the hair of some young nubile little blonde with velvety red lips, wrapped around the thickness of his cock as she swallows him down. 

It’s not coming off. You spit on the fabric in a confused attempt to dilute the waxy oily pigment as the questions start flooding your mind in rapt succession. _Is she better than you? Prettier and younger? Perkier and sweeter?_

Listing all the cliches that you have ever learnt about why men cheat on their wives in your head, you realize that you have become one of them. You feel stupid and humiliated and you hate him for it. 

The red won’t come out, can’t be contained, it only spreads and forms an even larger blot of red in its wake. A wound that’s bleeding out in front of you. It takes you much too long to realize that lipstick doesn’t bleed into fabric in this way, and wine is much too thin to eat into cotton with such a thick substance in its wake.

Not lipstick. _Not winestain_. **_Blood._**

Thick, viscous, blood. 

You’re so caught up, you don’t hear that the sound of running water has stopped, the lightswitch flicking, and the bathroom door creaking open. Don’t feel the dark set of eyes that are cautiously studying you, until the menacing cold voice sounds out to you, ripping you from your daze. 

“What are you doing?” 

Looking up from the crumpled up shirt, you see him, a towel wrapped around his lower body, slung low around his waist. The shape of his hipbone peeks out from the grey towel, where it dips into that V-shape that makes your eyes linger far too long before you even take in the rest of him and it makes you remember for a brief moment in all the emotional turmoil you’re trapped in, that sometimes, your husband is a very handsome man. 

“I was trying to get the stain out.” 

His hand covers yours, and the warmth of his large palm, sends a tingling sensation that burns along your fingertips, straight to the tip of your ears, enough to make you lightheaded even as you’re sitting down. 

His tanned skin is still damp, with a sheen of wetness that almost glistens against his taut chest under the dim amber light of the bedroom. It makes him look softer somehow, edges less sharp. Your mouth hangs low, gaping dumbly at the sight of him. 

He takes the shirt from you, pausing with widened eyes, as his eyes are drawn to the red incriminating stain, smudged deeper with your frantic attempts to rub it out, and his eyes turn to you. 

If the rusty red of the stain hadn’t convinced you before, that split second panic in his eyes that he quickly tries to smother lets you know, _it’s blood._

“Why is there blood on your shirt?” 

There’s no answer from him at first, he merely throws it to the side, as it lands with a soft, soundless thud, only heard by your frantic anxiety, as it pools on the lush carpeted floor. 

“I don’t know maybe I got scratched or something.” He tilts his jaw up ever so slightly, exposing his long neck. It bulges and flexes as he does so, revealing that hollow dent that you loved to nuzzle your cheek into, dragging your nose to inhale the scent of him that on good days smells of warmth and just cleanliness. Despite yourself, you almost marvel at the beauty of it, and there’s a familiar heavy ache that pools in your belly, as you watch him rub at the back of his neck. 

“On your neck?” 

A very unlikely story, but there’s no point in telling him that. It’ll only get him defensive. 

There’s a casual smile and a shrug of, _it’s no big deal_ , but there is a partition lurking behind his eyes. A demarcator meant to tell you that you are not to ask him.

“Something must’ve happened, or you wouldn’t be kicking down the door like a Trojan war horse in the middle of the night.” 

His thumb trails against his lip, as he opens his mouth to lie with one of his well rehearsed lines, but you cut him off before he does. 

“Do not keep telling me everything’s fine. I want you to answer my question. You come home in the middle of the night, with blood on your clothes—”

“It wasn’t—” he starts.

“Blood,” you repeat, standing firm. “That was blood. You might treat me like an idiot, and god knows maybe sometimes I am one, but do not tell me that wasn’t blood.” 

He’s carding through his wet darkened hair, tugging at it in irritation, “Honey it’s late, let’s go to bed, we can talk about this in the morning.” 

You are sick of this. So sick of the condescension and avoidant attitude. The way he’s locked you into the gilded cage of this suburbian home. Treats you like some stupid and dumb little thing, too weak to handle the realities of the outside world. 

“Stop bullshitting me. Tell me something real right now. Or I will grab the kids, get in the car, and you will never see us again.” 

There’s a silence between you so loud in its tension, it makes you want to clamp your hands tightly to your ears. 

You can see the internal fight playing out in his eyes, assessing you with a penetrating glare, as if he’s deciding whether he’s going to categorize you as an enemy or something that can be begrudgingly negotiated with. As angry as you are, you wonder if you’ve committed a fatal mistake in threatening to leave with the kids. Whether he’ll take it as a threat to his family, if he’ll determine that you have now become such a threat. 

If you’re an obstacle. How much effort would it take on his part to get rid of you? Probably not much, the man doesn’t look it, but you know how strong he is. The ease when he used to pick you up from your night shifts and carried you the remaining distance home as you’d laughed; heels chafed and bruised from being on your feet all day. Would it be as easy to carry you over his back when your limp body is rolled up in a carpet? 

Your eyes flicker to the door behind him. If you wanted to leave, you would have to leave through him to get to the door. Looking into his eyes, your heart squeezes tight at the darkened glower you find there. 

Adrenaline kicks in and that classic fight or flight instinct springs to life. You try to estimate the distance between you and the reach of Dave’s arm. Try to calculate if there’s enough time for you to reach for the gun you keep in your nightstand. The one he gave to you to keep you safe when he’s not at home. That he taught you to use at a gun range, 2 miles out of town, when you first moved here. 

The memory of it is still clear in your head. The way he’d caged you in between his arms in that small little booth. Strong, steady hands resting on your hips as he corrected your stance and the height of the gun in your hand, and then he’d given you a demonstration with his own gun. Cradling the weapon with an earned familiarity. Three shots in quick succession, without hesitation and perfect precision. Three holes perforated in the middle of the head of the human silhouette. Like it was the easiest thing for him to do. 

No, you realize, not even close to enough time. Had the gun already been in your hand, that still wouldn’t have given you enough of an advantage over him. So you stay rooted on the bed, trying to pretend that you are still cooly possessed and not terrified. The silence of this moment stretches over the unbearable stillness. A rubber band waiting to snap from the tension of being stretched too far. 

He’s the first to blink, closing his half-hooded eyes with a sigh, hips cocked to the side as he rests a hand there. 

“I’m not lying when I say that all I want is for you not to worry. I want you to be happy here,” he finally says, with measured terseness. “Which, I know you aren’t. I know you haven’t been for a long time and I don’t know what i can do to make things better.” 

He comes to stand by the bed, sliding down to kneel in front of you as he puts his hands in yours folded over your lap. “Tell me what I can do to make things good for you, and I will.”

If you’re honest with yourself, there’s something very appealing to have a man like David York kneeling before you. That he lets himself be at your mercy, and despite your sense of preservation you can’t help the maternal instinct that kicks in. To care for him when he looks at you like some wounded, injured little thing. Let his head rest in your lap and tell him that everything’s going to be ok. But you fight the instinct, because you know perfectly well that the man knows how to push every single one of your buttons to evoke that easy bleeding empathy of yours. 

“Are you saying that because that’s what you think I want to hear?” 

There’s a wry humourless smile that curls twistedly on his cheeks at your question. Not a fake one. Just seeped in sadness that makes your heart ache for the man in a way that it hasn’t in years. His gaze falls on you, eyes lingering on the entwined hands, yours and his, in your lap until he finally draws up to your eyes and holds it there. 

“I wanted this to be a new start for us. The big house. You and the kids would be safe here. Things got really rough after McCall’s death. I just… I don’t want us to go back to that. Don’t want you to have to see me like that again. I don’t want you to ever have to worry about being able to pay the rent, or worry that the kids are going to be lacking in anything in their childhood.” 

You think you see it now, the hardness in him, fossilised in the course of half a decade. The toll that the death of his mentor and friend had taken on him, and as if the world couldn’t wait to gloat, it took the found family he gained from his work and his sense of purpose in the world with him as well. Chiselled and chipped away at, until only the hardest enamel was left in place, and for the first time in years, you think you see him. 

Bringing one of your entwined hands to rest on his hollowed cheek, he turns his face until he’s able to brush his full lips over your fingertips, kissing them with a meekness that have you overcome, the anger subsiding, and any fight you had left in you is gone and you capitulate. 

“I’m not bullshitting you,” he whispers cajolingly as he tilts his head up until it rests against your forehead, still on his knees in front of you in a praying position. Like you’re a saint and he can only beg your forgiveness to absolve him. His face is too close, lips hovering above yours, close enough that you can feel his breath, and you can almost taste the mint of his toothpaste. 

So achingly close that even the slightest movement would push your lips to his. But he stays put as if waiting for your permission. Then you give it to him, reaching up to touch your lip with his. Small successive kisses that eat up the loneliness you’ve carried within you for months. Kisses that turn into bites and something immediately more urgent and desperate as his hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer, licking into your mouth, until you’re breathless and needy. 

There’s still a gnawing unresolved question. The fretting reminder that he hasn’t actually answered you, _why was there blood on his shirt._

“David,” you whisper against his lips, and you feel the pleased smile against your lips when he hears his full name, entirely too boyish and almost endearing. 

“I miss it when you say my name like that,” he tells you, mouth pressed hot over the line of your neck. “Say it again.” An ask, not an order. Almost a plea and it’s heady and intoxicating. You like the idea that you can make a man like him beg for you. If that was true. 

His teeth graze against the shell of your ear, biting down on the hard curve, and you whine at the sensation. “Fuck… _David_.” 

“Again.” This time an order. _You like that, too_. His voice is gruff and demanding, chapped lips and open mouth dragging down your neck, to your sternum and bare stomach as he pushes up the worn t-shirt to your chest; hands splayed over your stomach until you lie flat on your back against the bed in the process.

You whimper his name, as your eyes roll back in your head, back arching towards him. There’s a tiny, barely audible voice in your head that warns you this is just a distraction on his part. _Fuck you into complacency_. 

But the other part of you thinks it’s unfair to treat his every action with suspicion, every attempt to make you happy as manipulation. Then there’s that voice you’ve suppressed for far too long in this house, the one that admits you’re starved for touch and affection from him, and why do you have to keep depriving yourself and make yourself miserable? Would it be so bad to let yourself accept a morsel of affection from a man that so clearly loves you and wants you? So you succumb. 

You shiver pleasantly at the open mouthed feel of him against the cotton of your panties, nose bumping into your clit separated only by thin fabric, as his tongue is licking your soaked panties, with a low groan at the taste, hands gripping tighter around your hips, as your toes curl into the sheets, hot anticipation settling in your stomach. Your fingers tightly curl into his dishevelled hair, wishing he’d grown it longer for a better grip. 

“I don’t want you to worry about anything ever again,” he says, slipping two fingers past his full lips, and when he pulls them out they’re slick with his saliva, a string of glistening silver bridging his fingers. “Because I’m going to take care of everything. Going to take care of you.” 

His hands, dry and warm, slide across your inner thigh, as they’re parting your legs, tugging at your panties to the side, until there’s a loud rip and the cold air of the bedroom exposes your sensitive folds. Then he presses two thick fingers inside of you in a smooth single movement, eased by how wet you already were and you let out a quakey moan as you feel the full girth of them stretch you deliciously. 

“I keep telling you this,” he rasps, fingers curled as they brush right against that soft spot inside you that makes your legs go numb with white sparks of pleasure. “And you never seem to learn. So I’m going to show you thoroughly this time, until you learn it properly.” 

David moves his hot mouth over your clit, the warm wetness of his tongue pressing down on you and all of a sudden your lungs are crackling and sizzling from it.

You hear your own voice chanting the word ‘ _fuck_ ’ in the form of a litany and prayer, and as David sucks on your clit, your brain shortcircuits and you don’t know if you want more or to get away from the sensation entirely. Vaguely, you register that your foot is on his shoulder as you’re trying to push away but David coils his arm, sturdy and firm, around your thigh to keep you in place, until you feel your thighs pressed tightly against the side of his ears, his tongue licking a long broad stripe through your folds that you can feel to the curl of your toes. 

“David, so good— please don’t—”

“Don’t what sweetheart?” he mocks, and without looking you know there’s a shit-eating smirk on his face. “You’re going to have to speak up.”

“Don’t stop—fuck, please don’t stop.” 

“I’m not going to stop honey,” he murmurs, in a rasped cajoling tone that vibrates alongside the inside of your thighs, lips chapped and scalding on your skin. “I’m going to give you—” he grabs at the flesh of your thighs, dragging you lower on the bed, closer to his face from where he’s kneeling, until you’re right where he wants you, “—exactly what you need.” 

His mouth, hot and wet, settles back against your clit, tongue lapping up the taste of you, with a focused intent and hunger that has you reeling. Your ears pick up the sound of David’s groans, the hum of the vibration against your pussy. You scream his name, begging him not to stop, while pleading you can’t take anymore. Because you’re sure from the tight sensation boiling inside you, right beneath your skin that you are about to burst from want and neediness. 

The firmness of the mattress disappears from under you as the pressure builds and builds. A tightly coiled knot in your abdomen waiting to unfurl and crack open inside of you. Your orgasm pulses out of you, trickling down your fingertips and all of a sudden you’re weightless and lost in it. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, eyes fixed to the blank whiteness, before you become aware that you’re on your bed staring up at the ceiling and that the static white noise you’re hearing in your ears is your own harsh breath. 

Your eyes shift downwards and you see David gazing intently on you, eyes darkened with a hunger that wants to consume you. Staying rooted to his position, knees on the floor, until your eyes meet and you reach an outstretched hand for him, inviting him into your bed. 

Planting his knee on the mattress, the bed shifts as he joins you, his cock jutting against his stomach and your eyes are drawn to the glistening smear of precum on the flushed tip of his cock that makes saliva pool in your mouth, and all you can think of is how you want a taste of him. 

His right hand fists his cock with a few lazy strokes, the other grabbing your waist to pull you further up against the bed. 

“Spread your legs for me honey,” he orders before his thigh pushes against the insides of your legs and nudges them apart. “You want to feel my cock inside you, no?’

You whine keenly at his words. When his voice goes in that deep register, the one that speaks of authority, and an expectation to be obeyed, it makes your brain go fuzzy with arousal. It makes you go absolutely cock-dumb for him and David knows it. 

His cock slides against your folds, the rigid shape of him maddening, until it slides wetly against your clit. The tip of him prodding and teasing against your opening, purposely not entering you. All you want is more. For him to fuck you already. You plant your heels on the mattress for a firmer hold to grind up against him, in some desperate attempt to slip him inside of you that only makes him push you back down against the mattress with a dark chuckle. 

“You’re such a needy little thing for me aren’t you?” he teases. Intuitively you try to rub your thighs together for relief from the ache that builds when you hear his voice, low and rasping in your ear, but as soon as you do, David clasps at your knee keeping them spread open, the colder air of the bedroom against the inside of your thighs as you hear him hum in that low predatory tone. “But that’s okay, I need you too.” 

He settles your legs over his shoulder, pulling you closer, until the reassuring heat of his firm chest is pressed up against the back of your thighs. “Need your legs wrapped around me,” he murmurs, pinning you with a hungry look in his eyes. “Need you to scream my name when I fuck my cum inside you.” 

He pushes the thick tip of his cock into you, and a convulsing breath tears from your lips as you break open for him. David takes his damn time when he eases into you, going agonizingly slow, and you are sure that it’s pure sadism on his part to torture you that makes you both love and hate him a little bit more, all wrapped in a confusing cocoon of want. 

The warm amber of your night light illuminates half of his face, the other hidden in the darkness of the room, half of him lost to you. His face is a work of art, a Rembrandt painting, sharp strong curves, and the most lovely expressive eyes when he feels something and actually shows it. It’s all you can do but to reach out for him, fingers tangling into his hair, pulling his lips to yours and when you do, it’s like the last bit of his finely controlled restraint snaps. David thrusts his hips fully into you, with a low content moan as he finally bottoms out inside of you. 

“You feel so fucking good, every single time. So fucking perfect for me.” 

His words surges through your spine until it is left searing against the back of the cool bed sheet, and then you can feel him move again, his pace rough and hard as he keeps pushing himself into you in long and hard strokes and you are willing to let yourself completely fall apart in front of him. To let him be completely in control of everything. His cock hits somewhere deep inside you and you dig your heels against his strong back to keep him there. David’s pace falters for a calculated second as he holds himself in place for you as if he knows exactly what you need, and then somehow he circles his hips and snaps upwards, shoving himself a few inches deeper and it’s so good it has you twitching and convulsing against him. 

You moan wantonly in a voice that you barely recognised anymore, it sounds crazed and needy, your hips lifting off the bed trying to meet every one of his thrust inside of you, but your pace is far sloppier compared to his. 

All your brain functions are being distilled to the raw aching need of being fucked by him, being filled by David, until there’s so much of him that you can’t fit anymore of him in you and still you want more.

“Deeper,” you plead and David’s hand shoots out to wrap both your wrists in a menacingly strong grip to pin them down above your head, holding you down. 

“Deeper?” he growls roughly with a harsh snap of his hips, “Don’t worry honey, I’ll fuck you as deep as you need me to.” 

“When I’m done, you’re going to feel me. Every time you sit down. Each time you move,” he tells you, voice sounding almost a threat. 

Forceful thrusts punctuating each word that grits through his teeth, “In every” thrust “fucking” and another “breath.”

Thick fingers wrap themselves securely around the front of your throat, and it’s entirely depraved how a tendril of thrill sparks through your entire back with his hands around you this way. How you feel the rush of wetness coat your thighs slickly, spilling down the entire base of his cock. 

If he wanted to, this man could crush your windpipe with little ease, just a hard squeeze that doesn’t let up. Until your vision darkens and the world around you fades away, and maybe it’s naivety, maybe it’s pure idiocy. But you tell yourself that whatever happens, whoever this man becomes, you are the one person he would never harm. 

“Fuck, honey, you like that?” he rasps, pulling all the way out of you and the emptiness has you fluttering and clenching unsatisfactorily, until David slams all of himself back inside you with a deep, consuming stretch. 

You hear yourself scream into the bedroom as you feel the thick satisfying length of him strike that sweet spot that you’re never able to reach on your own. It makes your lungs cave in and you swear he’s so deep you can feel him everywhere. He leans down, crashing his lips in a bruisingly rough kiss, as he continues to rut into you. 

He watches you, as you try to moan and cry at the pleasure overtaking you but nothing is coming out. Instead, your whole body is trembling and quaking in response to him. Unable to stop the tremor as you try to cling onto his shoulders. He grins at the sight of you, pinning down your wrists harder against the mattress, and you have no choice but to take it. Take each and every one of David’s pounding thrusts into you that are almost punishing in its force. 

_Deep and hard_ , just like you had wanted him. 

“Fuck, baby. Do you see how you’re fucking leaking for me?” He says it like a praise and you look down between you, to the obscene sight of your cunt wrapped around the thick girth of his cock, glistening slick with your wetness and for a moment you worry that you’re going to ruin the sheets. Then the intimidating length of his cock disappears inside of you, and you groan like you’re in heat at the sight and feel of it. “See that? Isn’t that pretty?” 

His thumb presses down on your clit before it slips further down, swathing your folds in your own liquid arousal, before you feel the tip of his finger press down to where he’s already filling you up so fully. 

Panic bubbles up in you, because you can’t possibly take more of him. “David, David,” you try to grab for his wrist, to pull him back up, but he won’t budge. His thrusts slow, a feral grin on his lips, with a hand firmly set between your thighs, as two fingers press inside you, alongside his cock. 

“It’s okay, you’re doing so fucking well.” 

You almost scream at the sensation of being stretched to your limits, and you would have if not for the strong hold of his other hand covering your mouth while he hushes you. “I just want to give you a taste baby.” 

His fingers slide out, coated in your arousal, and bring them to your mouth, feeding you the slick pads of his fingers, not satisfied until he feels your tongue swirl against them. And when you do, when your mouth is filled with your own taste, sweet and tart on his fingers, there’s a proud smile on his face. 

“See how fucking good you taste?” he tells you. “I can’t ever get enough of it.” 

His hips resume their movement, ending the short reprieve he afforded you as he slowly rocks into you and picks up his pace again. You feel the weight of his body pressed against your own. The scent of him, linen and soap, distinctly clean. It’s like your world is filled with him and you don’t want it to stop. Your jaw tilts upwards, vision filled with luminous brown eyes, and for a moment, you see him, the man you had married and love. 

There’s a low, rough grunt in your ear, “I want you to come for me again honey. Want to feel you tight and wet as you come all over my cock. Can you do that for me?”

His voice wraps around your abdomen like a coiling smoke, and it builds and builds and builds, until the tension becomes too large to be contained inside of you.

It’s too much. You are on the precipice of falling from the edge of the world and every instinct in your body tells you that you will shatter into a million pieces when the end comes. And still your brain has gone truly stupid because instead of trying to escape, it tells you to yield and let yourself succumb to it. 

Then everything crashes down, you panic at the sensation that pulls you under and you try to clutch to any part of David you can for comfort. Your nails dig sharp into the firm muscles of his broad back, until you feel his hips jerking raggedly against you with a razored inhale of pained breath. The warmth of his skin and flesh under the palm of your hands, and you hear his voice in your ear with a feral murmur, “ _te amo, te amo, te amo_ ,” over and over again, a desperation to be believed, because if he repeats it enough, maybe you will. 

Then finally, you let go. 

Everything else falls away, bursts of pleasure filling every corner of your veins. It trickles over your legs, wrapping you in the warm and overwhelming comfort of it. You don’t remember how to breathe anymore, but you don’t think you need to because your lungs are so filled and everything feels so good that you’re sure that you will never need for anything else in your life but this sensation. 

You lay there spent, and you don’t know how long it takes before your senses flicker alive again until you hear the sound of David’s harsh breathing coming somewhere above you. Brown tendrils fall across his brow, and there’s a light sheen of sweat across his forehead. He’s looking at you with a crazed expression in his eyes and you are mesmerised by how beautiful he looks like this. You want to feel him come apart inside of you. Because of you. Feel him spill himself inside of you warm and thick. 

Which is exactly what you tell him. _You tell him how good he feels inside of you, how much you’ve missed him inside you. That you never want him to stop_ , and his eyes snap to yours, pace faltering, his leg shaking as he drags himself away from you before slamming back inside. 

“I want to feel you come inside me, fill me up with it. Please… Want you…”

The brown in his irises flashes, and he lets out a strained tortured grunt. Fingers curling into the plump flesh of your hips with an efficient grip as he lifts you up into a sitting position in his lap, pressed flush against his chest. He’s close, so incredibly close, arms encasing your torso, face buried deep into your neck, not an inch of your skin not covered by him. Another sharp thrust drags across your insides and it’s like you can feel the shape of him trying to imprint himself inside of you. Like he’s trying to permanently bury himself there and never leave, and you kind of hopes he never does. 

There’s a tick in his jaw that almost looks painful, and you want to brush over it with your fingertips to soothe it, and as you do, his mouth collides over yours, taking your sounds from you, palms gripping your ass, forcing you down on him, rough and unhinged, leaving not a single inch of your insides unfilled by him. Once, twice, and then you feel it, the harsh twitches of his cock inside you as he growls against you. Pulses that have you both falling apart.

David’s chest is heaving heavily through harsh breaths with a dazed unguarded expression in his face that has you threading your finger through his hair and he shivers at the fine contact with a quiet, almost vulnerable, whimper that is so unlike him. 

His lips are on yours, through heavy pants of his breathing as he tries to recover, a series of brief unbroken kisses before he shifts both of you back down on the mattress. You can feel the pace of his breaths slow against your lips with each kiss until eventually it’s just a sedate undemanding pace of tiny licks against your tongue. 

If it was always like this between you, things would have been easy. The man lying next to you with soft eyes and a content, sleepy smile is incredibly easy to love. 

“I love you, David.”

For the longest moment, he doesn’t say anything, face unreadable. Then his arms reach for you, pulling you into his chest, until you settle on top of him as he nestles into your neck, into that familiar position, where he buries his nose into the clavicle of your collarbone, the fit of a locksmith’s cut key to a home. 

“I love you, too.” 

* * * * *

In the morning, you wake to an empty bed on your right side. Cold sheets that tell you, you’ve been alone in the bed for a long time. The alarm clock shines an alarming red 7:23am, that almost burns your sleep-blurred eyes. 

Knowing him, disciplined as he is, he’s already been up for hours by this time. Gone for a run, answered emails, paid bills and taken care of every big and small detail of his life before you’ve even set foot out of the bed. Part of you almost doesn’t want to leave the bed, and wants to linger in the safe bubble of yesterday. You wonder if he’s going to be his other self again, distant and moody when he thinks you’re not looking, or if there was a hint of truth in last night that will, maybe, lead to a better change. 

With a weariness that lingers in the marrow of your bones, you finally muster up the energy to leave the bed, and make your way downstairs to the kitchen, where David is already sitting by the kitchen island, impeccably dressed in an ironed suit, even though it’s a Saturday. You find yourself lingering by the door, trying to figure out who it is that you’re going to be facing today, your husband, or, the bodysnatcher Dave York. 

“Morning, honey,” he says with a smile, a soft one that starts in his eyes before it even reaches his lips and as he does, you let out a long relieved breath you didn’t know you were holding. “You want coffee?”

Busying yourself with the small metal tin, scooping out the grounded coffee beans, his arms wrap around you from behind, and there’s a slow warmth that blooms from your stomach upwards until it crowds your chest. That large hawk nose of his, digging into the hollow of your neck, with a deep-sated sigh as he takes you in, the nub of his nose, a little bit cold, as it rubs against you. 

“Sleep well?” 

You smile, humming in approval, as you feel his fingers slip under your shirt to curl at the bare skin he finds there, dragging you flush against his front, and for the first time in years you feel genuinely happy and safe. 

The rest of the day goes by in a busy flurry. There’s breakfasts, and laundry, and errands to run, but everytime you look back David is there, and everytime you look his eyes are still soft and present, and you’re reminded that everything is fine now. Camille wakes, cranky and sourly at 11, until Sam, one of David’s friends from the office, comes over with his daughter for their playdate. For two five year old girls, the two have the lung capacity of 60’s rock stars as they scream up a storm in your living room, and you only shake your head as you hand over a cup of coffee to Sam with a chocolate truffle that David had brought home for you from Brussels. 

Sam accepts it, with a sheepish smile, saying, “Thanks doll, sorry to turn up like this. I know you probably would have wanted to cancel after what happened with Susan, but the little one just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Your head turns to Sam in confusion, as you bring the second cup you’d prepared over to David from where he was sitting by the counter. “What happened to Susan?”

Sam looks at you, surprise clouding his expression for a brief moment, before he quickly turns to David with a wordless question in his eyes, the question of, _you didn’t tell her?_

“Sam?” You repeat. “What happened to Susan…?”

His hand fiddles awkwardly in his lap, deliberating his next words. “Maybe it’s best if I didn’t tell you. It might be better if you heard it from Dave.”

There’s stiff tension set to David’s jaw, at the man’s word. The tightness of his lower jaw grinding down with a hardness in his shoulders that feels chilling even from where you were standing. 

“Sam,” you snap, the third time now. “What happened?”

“Susan was attacked in her hotel room in Brussels and killed. We don’t have details yet, but we think it might have been a robbery.”

Blood stains of copper brown, red against white cotton, burn behind your eyelids. 

Your eyes flicker to David’s, hoping something in there will tell you otherwise, but his eyes refuse to meet yours, thumb pressed against his lower lip, avoidantly, and you know. 

There’s a cacophony of white noise ripping through your ears, knees buckling from under you as the tiled floor below your feet seem to sink and warp into soft unsteady sand. You stand there looking at the man in front of you, cold and distant, and there’s a sickening bloat in your stomach, feels dizzying. Your mouth tastes sour with bile and you are convinced that you are going to vomit. 

Last night’s performance, because that is what it was, a sham. The vulnerability you thought you’d been privy to, a ruse he’d specifically tailored, just for you. Some of his finest work, and you, in your desperation to justify your need to love and be loved by this man, had swallowed it, hook line and sinker, eating it up. 

A pathetic goldfish in a small fishbowl starving for affection. 

You had been so thoroughly played. 

The man in front of you right now may be your husband. The father of your children. The love of your life. But he’s also a murderer. 

_Fin._


End file.
